The Monkey and the Weasel
by Lynn Kroto
Summary: Romano and Spain seem to be getting along quite well, but all good things must come to an end. Though this time, the end of one thing is the start of something more wonderful than the first.
1. Part I

Part One:

The Monkey and the Weasel Begin their Chase

"All around the mulberry bush..."

Okay, maybe not a mulberry bush, but a small shrubbery of some kind. Squatting behind its dark leaves in the middle of a garden courtyard and singing to himself was a dark-haired male with olive green eyes and tanned skin.

"The monkey chased the weasel..."

His gracefully muscled body was clothed in dark trousers and an orange v-neck, knees and elbows dirty from trailing another figure through the rows of bushes and smallish trees. The weasel that the monkey was following was a few feet away, walking slowly through the flora with his hands clasped behind his back. He was petite and a little on the pale side with shaggy brown hair, a curl of it sticking from his head. Spain's eyes were glued, as was his camera lens.

"The monkey thought 'twas all in fun..."

He loved this past time, especially in the lovely weather that had been about the place recently. Spain's home, a tall castle-like building surrounded by a maze of stone walls, archways, and various gardens, had been bathed in warn sun for the past month, even though it was late summer and the days should have been getting grayer and rainier. Romano would spend his days walking or pestering people, and Spain, when he wasn't occupied elsewhere, would follow him. Now he was closer, standing behind a pillar and watching Romano's back. He smiled to himself, slipping the small camera back into his pocket and crouching.

"Pop! Goes the weasel..."

And he ran up to the smaller and poked Romano in the sides. "Boo!" The smaller shrieked, whipping around and striking out. But it was too late, Spain had already constricted his arms around Romano's shoulders and snuggled close.

"Spain!" It was more an exclamation of... discovery, at finding who it was.

"Romano," Spain murmured, nuzzling his arm as the smaller tried to push him away.

"Wha-What are you doing?" Romano asked the least bit uninterested. "Get off me Goddammit!" But Spain continued to hold the other in a death grip. Tight, but not so much so that it constricted Romano's air passage. He could still cuss. "You Bastard! Go away!" The other was still completely oblivious to Romano's banterings, squeezing him tighter.

"You're so cute!" He reached up with one hand and grabbed a hold of Romano's ahoge. The smaller froze up, then his squirming got worse.

"You Pervert!" and his fist flew into Spain's stomach. He ran off, leaving the other on the ground, holding his middle and gasping for breath. The taller was downed, still smiling, and managed to capture one last picture before Romano disappeared around the bend. The camera fell from Spain's hand as he rolled over in the dirt, groaning in pain. He could practically feel the bruise start to appear on his skin, and it felt like he was being ripped in two when he pulled himself to his feet. That kid could hit hard. He bent over, which was also quite painful, grabbed his camera and started off in the direction of his house. There was no use perusing this pastime any longer, at least for the day. Other things needed done, and at the moment, that other thing was dinner.

The sky was in its orange-ing phase, where it wasn't quite daytime nor was it really dusk yet. It lit everything on the earth with a golden-yellow light and made them cast long shadows across the ground. The leaves on the bushes and trees turned to an olive color and each flower appeared more beautiful. Even the man walking through the garden seemed more angelic. However, in his opinion, the mansion (which more appeared a castle) was the most impressive thing to be magnified by the change in light. The windows perfectly reflected the bright orange sun and the white outer wash was moved to a soft orange. Even without the magnificent lighting, Spain's house was really something to look at. The thing was a three-story adobe style house with lots of windows, verandas, and balconies that were covered in nice furniture, along with two heavy doors that lead to its equally lavish inside.

The place was like a palace; with grand stairs leading to all three floors and walls washed with golden and red paints. There were fancy decorative carpets on the shiny floors and curtains of the same nature hung at every window. The physical build of the house was similar to a Spanish style building with a few Italian accents for Romano (when he was little, it made him feel more "at home" though he refused to admit to such homesickness), and furnished lavishly as was called for by both varieties of culture. Spain felt that he blended in to what was around him as he moved through the house, even there casting a shadow due to the many chandeliers that hung from the tall ceilings, though not as stretched as outside. The polished floors let a clacking sound come from his shoes and magnified his whistling so by the time he entered the secondary wing, the dining room door was already open for him, and the smell of tomato sauce drifting from the kitchen adjacent it. The carved table made of dark wood was set with fancy dishware and glasses that no one would ever drink or eat from, being purely for show and colored with toxic metal-paints, save for two places at one end that were set for he and Romano, who was not there yet.

So Spain sat at the leftmost seat, crossing his legs in the chair and leaning across the table for a bottle of '89 that had been so kindly left for them. He poured two glasses, taking a small sip from his own before returning it to the tabletop and waiting. It was not long after that one of the many assistants that helped around his house brought out the meal; pasta, as always. However not just any dish. Spain had made sure it was Romano's favorite. It was, naturally, not often he got to chose what he wanted fro dinner in his own house, since the other that he lived with had a rather pushy personality. Of course he never minded his own ideas being overruled by Romano's, he having practically been raised by Spain, therefor making their opinions all the more similar. It was because of this that made Romano's tardiness for dinner a little odd.

It wasn't like the younger to miss dinner like this, however Spain inferred that it had something to do with his behavior just a half an hour earlier. He pushed his chair back from the table and walked over to the empty one beside it, taking the plate and glass of wine and exiting the room. He headed through the living room and past the entryway of the main parlor, into one of many small hallways. The floors were made of plain wood that hadn't been swept in a day or so, with plain white walls and pale green runners by the floors and ceilings. There were few doors here, one standing out with a brass plaque on its front. He moved to that door, looking at the name plate for a moment. Spain had offered him other rooms on the top floor; big and spacious, but Romano had stuck to the ground floor. The taller had made a joke about his room being right next to a bathroom, and of course that got him a punch in the gut like he deserved. Carefully, he reached out with the hand that held the wine and knocked on the wood with his knuckle. There seemed to be no one in there, but Spain knew this is where Romano would be. He'd pulled this moping, I'm-not-eating trick before. He knocked on the door again, and still no one answered.

"Romano?" He paused, then spoke again. "Romano I know you're in there. I have dinner." He could hear a faint shuffling, but the door stayed closed and locked. Spain sighed, bending over and setting the dish and glass down. "I'll just leave it here, if you're hungry." No more encouraging sounds resounded from the other side of the door, so Spain waited a little longer. Romano must have known he was there, because it was only after Spain had left and returned to eat his own dinner that the door creaked open and the boy with the dark hair stuck his head out and took both items back into his room. Typical teenager behavior. He left both outside when he was done, glass and plate empty of their original contents, and one of Spain's few attendants picked them up.

Spain, meanwhile, had finished eating (alone, and at the long desolate dining room table that seemed depressing when it was filled with only one body) and was making his way up the grand-staircase to the middle floor. He paused on the landing, looking back down to the level below. Spain was debating whether or not to go try and get Romano to come out of his room. He would like him to, even though he had no plan after Romano opening the door. But still. It would be nice. Nice unfortunately didn't exist all that often, so he continued down the long and wide left wing hall. The walls were a deep wine red, doors a tan wood with shiny doorknobs that matched the gilded frames of the portraits that were hung everywhere. The lights hung from the ceiling and threw all sorts of interesting shadows everywhere, but Spain paid them no notice. He'd walked down that hall so many times that the grandeur was no longer astonishing to him.

As if they were stuck on a track, Spain's legs led him to the last room on the right, his own bedroom. Upon opening the door, he found everything as he had left it that morning. The golden curtains were drawn over the window seat and the glass itself, tied with a cord that matched the beige walls. Like in the hall, there were paintings in decorated frames and a crystal light fixture above. The floors were made of wood, and the thumping of Spain's clothes sounded clear as he stripped to his underthings and walked to the door a few feet from the bed. The bathroom was tiled in cream, the toilet, sink, and tub made of some cold marble. The only light came from one tall lamp in the corner, but even that was dim, Spain found as he turned it on, most likely due to the frosted shade or the fact it was an old bulb.

Regardless of the reason, it didn't help his mood, which could only be described as a sigh and a weary shake of the head. It wasn't often this funk came and ruined his normally cheery days, but it must have been a special day or something. He crossed the cool floor over to the tub, sitting on its edge and turning on the hot water. He watched as it filled the room, and steam fogged the mirror until it was hardly distinguishable as a mirror anymore and the tub was full. Spain slipped out of his boxers and into the water, staring blankly at the faucet that dripped slightly even after it had been shut off. The house was getting old. He was getting old too; the warm soapy water feeling all too good on his joints. It made him laugh a little. He'd grown up in the house, and already he was feeling the age that was in the wood of the walls. Granted twenty-five wasn't all that bad, but sometimes it felt like he was an old man.

He didn't much have the will to move his arm and grab the soap from its holder on the wall. It seemed too far a distance and his limbs felt too heavy to move. He could feel his eyes drifting closed. The water was still hot, the humid air concentrating the fresh smell of soap, the hazy light from the lamp in the corner. It all made him tired. He allowed himself to soak longer before beginning to wash off the day's dirt and stress. Well, just the dirt; the stress seemed to always be there. Stress from his boss, from having to watch over the huge house, from Romano being a pill yet oh so adorable at the same time. Romano. If he wasn't in the bath and in the shower instead, he would have allowed his thoughts to go further. Being that he was indeed not, Spain washed those ideas away with shampoo and more water. They weren't helping him any.

After pulling himself from the tub shortly after that, draining the water, and drying off with a rather large and fluffy towel, Spain slipped his boxers onto his legs again and flipped on the bathroom fan. Its whir was familiar, and as he clicked off the light and the entire room became dark, he felt no impending sense of alarm. It wrapped him up and guided him over to the bed, where he yanked back the pile of ornately embroidered comforters and silk sheets. They felt scratchy, and the feather pillow seemed to be just a brick. Fantastic. It was another one of those nights.

It was some time after he lay down that the faint groan of door-hinges reached his ears, and footsteps a moment before the door closed again. Under normal circumstances, he would have reached for the knife at the bedside table and flicked on the light, but he knew he didn't have to. The way whoever was there breathed and walked was well-known and most definitely well-welcomed. He heard the mattress creak, felt another sit on its edge, but he feigned sleep and didn't move. He felt a familiar body wriggle in next to him, take his arm and drape it over his own shoulders.

"Goodnight Spain," Romano whispered, and the taller felt warm arms tighten around his middle. As believably as he could, he mumbled and adjusted himself more comfortably around the smaller. Romano kind of freaked out, withdrawing from the touch before again leeching onto Spain like he was the last living thing on earth. It took him all of three minutes to fall asleep, and after that, it was Spain's turn. He moved his legs about the other's and pulled him in closer, if that was even possible. He could feel himself smiling, and he could have sworn that Romano was smiling too. That was nice. To be so close and not have to worry about getting slugged. He wasn't even thinking about sleeping with Romano in the idea of sexual interest, which strangely enough, was new. He fell asleep content, for the first time in quite a while.

And it was then that that night seemed like one years ago, when Romano was very little and would sleep with Spain because he felt safe there. The only thing that was different was age, experience, and somewhere inside themselves was a change of affection that Romano was oblivious of until very recently. The safety bit was still there though; the comfort of familiar arms was heaven to someone who was a crybaby and a coward. Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending upon how you looked at it), Romano was one of those people, and Spain had just the embrace he needed. They were like that awkward box one finds in the closet, and the lid is in another. No other box would fit with that lid, just like no one else could fit with Romano, and likewise Spain.

When they slept, the box had found its lid, and they fit perfectly together. Every limb, every finger, seemed made just the right size and shape to match so their bodies would entwine in one fitted shape. They held hands when they slept, they smiled and once Romano even giggled about something in his dream that of course he wouldn't remember then. But maybe that was the point. To be happy now, and not have to worry about later, even if later wasn't all that grand. It wasn't exactly ideal, especially when planning for the future, but both were young enough to not have to worry about that. They had no worries together when the slept, except for maybe awkward morning wood. The weak hours of the morning brought dim light into the room, casting shadows of the drapes onto the bed, where the two still lay, entangled. They grew stronger with the hours passing, as did a bond inside both males on the bed. Subconscious, but there. It would be a while before either one noticed.

Spain woke with this dawning attraction to find a head of dark hair buried into his chest, a curl tickling his nose, and two arms wrapped tightly around him. He had his own hands on Romano's shoulder and head, and he found himself smiling. Gingerly, he removed his arm because he didn't want to wake the smaller. Well, really more than anything he wanted to wake Romano up, but he knew as soon as he did, he would get yelled at and punched a few times before Romano would clear like smoke. Carefully Spain lifted himself on one arm, and the one that had been near him shifted and hugged the pillow closer. Spain looked down. No one knew the Romano he was looking at; the one that snuggled into his pillow and smiled when he was sleeping. It felt like a little privilege to be able to reach over and stroke Romano's dark hair and hear him mumble happily instead of shout. Spain felt immensely lucky to see the flushed face grin instead of glower when he bent over and kissed him gently on the forehead. The boy in the bed, that was his Romano.

With one last glance, he carefully rolled from the mattress to the cold wood floor that bit at his feet. He made his cautious way over to the dresser, looking behind him every time a board creaked to see if Romano had woken. Every time it was just another look at a snoozing kid strangled in the silk sheets. He dressed silently, trying to quiet the scraping noises the drawers made when they opened. After pulling on the day's clothes, he tip-toed up to the bed again. The boy in the sheet was still out, face flushed and breathing even. Spain leaned over and kissed Romano's neck gingerly, resting a hand on his arm before pulling away. His gaze lingered on the bed all the way across the room and even after the bedroom door was shut again, a large part of his mind was still wrapped in the blankets with Romano.


	2. Part II

Part Two:

In Which the Idea of Love is Helped Along by some White Curtains, a Habit, and a Book

Unlike his counterpart, Romano was a good sleeper. He could sleep for a whole day if he was allowed. Though just not then. He woke shortly after he realized that there was no longer a warm body next to and over him, blinking open his eyes and sitting. The many sheets and whatnot were wrapped around his body and he found it quite difficult to untangle himself. Although he wanted to sit in that bed and reminisce the previous night's accomplishments, he knew a better place for that and part of him was worried Spain would walk in and ruin the moment. He did stand and look around a bit though, at all the splendor that was Spain's room. He, unlike the other, was not used to the house, its size or its fanciness. Not only that, but the fact that there seemed to be evidence of Spain's staying everywhere. There were still clothes on the floor, the fan in the bathroom was still on, the drawers of the dresser were open and things were hanging out.

Romano looked at them for a moment, then moved over to the pile on the floor and picked them up. He folded the clothes and straightened the drawers, closing them up again. Spain would have definitely been better off with his brother, who would have cleaned the entire room, but because of that Romano did what he could. He didn't want Spain to think about trading him again. It was because that thought made him so upset that he straightened out the bedsheets too and shut off the bathroom fan. Romano then turned and walked over to the door, leaving it a crack open for Spain before returning to his own room and getting ready for the day. He was completely oblivious to the fact that, not a minute after he left, Spain returned to his room to find everything much cleaner and Romano gone.

The first thought was that the younger had cleaned before he left, but that was impossible, because he never tidied up even his own room. Then came to mind the other's that helped him tend to his house, but they always closed the door. Regardless of who it was (but the big money was on Romano), Spain was grateful because he also hated cleaning. Though now he was worried. He had, of course, expected Romano to run off without word, but part of him felt bad for not sticking around in the morning. So after a detour to the loo, he was back out about the house again, headed up to the topmost floor.

In all the years Romano had stayed, Spain had figured out where the other liked to hide out and spend his days if not outside. He'd checked the usual hangouts previously, and was now checking yet again. He'd been alone at breakfast, and the daily dusting of statues and pictures had also been done alone in solitude. The only place that was excluded from his morning routine was the half-finished upper floor. Upon climbing the stairs and passing through the landing, he found himself in a plain white corridor with empty walls and low-quality wood floors. As he made his way down the row of doors, Spain made a mental note to himself to get the house all finished up. After writing that down on his brain-checklist of things to do, he found himself almost at the end of the hall with no sign of the other. He was about to give up, assuming Romano had returned outside to be in the sun, but gave the last few rooms a look-through anyway. It was in the second-to-last door that he found what he was looking for.

It was a spare bedroom, small and not much to look at. Its white walls were plain and yet to be covered with paint, and the wood floors were bare of any and all furniture and carpets. There were lots of windows though, and each was covered in a set of many, many, white curtains that would drift about lazily every time a gust entered the room. This time though, Spain found that it wasn't a breeze that was making them move. It was Romano. He had his hands bunched in the fabric and seemed to be, at first glance, dancing with them. At that moment while he was still oblivious to the other's presence, he was just a silly child again, giggling (which was strange for his usual demeanor) and smiling to himself. Spain was grinning too. It'd been a while since he'd seen Romano this way, and it made him happy to know that he hadn't just become some stingy person, that there was still some child-like humor in there.

"What are you doing?" Spain asked, peering further into the room. Romano blushed a violent red and quickly released the white curtains.

"Nothing," he replied quickly, tucking his hands behind his back. He fought the urge to cuss and turned that into a kind of forced smile.

"Come on Romano, you can tell me anything!" he pestered, walking in and pushing the door closed behind him as he advanced across the wood floors.

"I said nothing Bastard!" and he backed against the windowsill and used the drapes to cover his red face. "Go away." Spain took another step forward, brushing the fabric with the backs of his fingers.

"It's my house, I can stay if I'd like."

"Well I don't like." Romano tried to climb up onto the sill so he could be in a good position to kick Spain in the face if he got too close. However it was far too narrow to sit on, so he took to hoping Spain would leave him alone. Which of course never happened. When his face peered out from behind the fabric though, Romano felt his face grown red and his insides squirm in a way he knew they weren't supposed to. That awkward motion of his feelings squishing around with his organs kept him still, and he let Spain get close. A lot closer than he would have been okay with normally. The tall male noticed this, and instead of pouncing, he took the detour and disappeared back into the curtains.

Hang on. That wasn't fair.

The feeling inside Romano (that he had deemed to be a pretty alright one) was ripped from him as soon as Spain left. He had no right to take that! With a small frustrated grunt, Romano pushed himself off the wall and moved aside one of the drapes, to see Spain with a taunting smile on his face. Instead of taking a swipe at his mug, Romano shyly reached out. Before he could make contact, timidity got a hold of him and he hid himself. A hand grabbed the window covering and moved to Romano's other side, and using that as leverage, Spain gave his wrist a flick and Romano was forced into a spin. That set off the next few actions, and ultimately led to them twirling the curtains around one another and giggling like two second grade crushes. Romano tugged the one behind Spain, pushing the taller into his chest, and they exchanged red faces and smiles. Spain rested his forehead against the other's, and he kissed Romano on the cheek.

"Are you...?" Spain asked, and Romano glowered.

"Of course not," he replied with a bit of a snap in his voice. But he held on anyway, a little tighter than last time, one hand grabbing a hold of Spain's shirt and pulling his body closer. Spain kissed the corner of Romano's mouth, careful in case the other didn't approve of the gesture. What he hadn't been expecting was the other's soft warm lips in full against his, then hands on his sides with ever impatient grumbles coming from Romano's throat. Spain, who was totally taken aback, quickly pulled away and his eyes snapped open. Romano relinquished his hold too, and both of them touched their lips like they had just done something awful. Green eyes watched amber ones, and then it was like they were both controlled by the same force. It drew them together instantly, in an almost rough manner from which sprouted a deep kiss.

It was that action that planted an idea inside Romano's head, just a little one, in the far reaches of his mind. The next kiss was more intimate, with hands slipping under clothes and a few well placed grunts. That was as far as they got though, there was no need. If they wanted to they could, the curtains providing good cover and the fact they were in an out-of-the-way room ever tempting, but they didn't. Everything after what they were seemed taboo and too unfamiliar to be comfortable. Even Spain wasn't pressing himself to take it further, which seemed very strange for him. However old habits weren't always the best at times like that. Out of wont Spain wrapped Romano's ahoge around his index finger. It would have been a lovely feeling if there had been some warning beforehand, but there was none, and he spazzed.

"Agh! Pervert!" It was an instinctual reaction, and there was no stopping those words from coming from his mouth. As quickly as he had latched on, Romano released Spain and pushed him roughly away. In an instant he had run from the curtains over to a bare corner of the room, crossing his arms and squeezing his eyes shut. His scowling face was bright red, and that made him angry because a blush like that was hard to cover up. Spain was blushing too, but just lightly. He was generally ashamed at what he had done, and was now hoping to God Romano wasn't regretting getting personal with him behind the curtains. He took a moment to recover his breath and suppress the color from his face before walking out from the drapes and over to the other. The closer he got, the more Romano seemed to squirm and appear uncomfortable. He growled at Spain once he was within a few inches distance. Unfazed, the taller pressed a kiss to Romano's cheek. He hoped the other would take it as an apology, but he should have known better to expect that.

"Go away Asshole," he said with a scowl. Spain kept smiling, but something inside him strained under a large weight. He lowered his hand from the wall, running it across Romano's shoulders before turning and walking out. More than anything Romano wanted to reach out and pull Spain back as he walked away, but his limbs were locked and refused to move. He stayed with his arms crossed by that wall for a long time, just standing and glowering until he forgot why he was even mad in the first place. Even then he clenched his fists by his sides and stomped out of the room, down the hall to the stairs, then down those to another hall to a closed door. His body relaxed a little though, when he read the name plate that Spain had made. It was his name, Romano; engraved into a brass plaque in ornate letters that seemed to glow. Tentatively he reached his hand up, traced the letters that had been cut into the plate. When his finger brushed a sharp edge, and blood appeared on his finger, he opened the door and slammed it angrily behind him in a burst of pain and frustration. Mainly at himself, but no, that idea only lingered in the back of his head.

Romano refused to believe it. Refused to believe he was was anything but strong and in control of his emotions. He didn't want to accept he wasn't. That he was a crybaby and scared. He didn't like to believe that. However more than he wanted to tell himself that, he wanted to prove to Spain those things. He wanted to... to be like Spain. After having watched him and studied him his whole life, Romano felt he needed to show Spain that he learned something. How to sit and stand straight, how to hold his head up, how to be powerful and feared by the other nations. He wanted to learn because he was desperate for approval and affection that had been so absent in his early life. Romano had observed his grandfather, Grandpa Rome, but his brother Italy always got the extra cookie. Italy was always the better drawer, the better cleaner, was always sweeter and kinder, the better grandson, and because of that Grandpa Rome overlooked the desperation in Romano and took his brother away.

After that, the bitterness turned to deep-set pain that he covered with anything else he could. More often than not it was a teasing demeanor, harsh temperament, and closed off affections. It was the only thing he could do. Spain had tried to teach him to love and to be a boy again, but Romano wouldn't accept that either. He was already too acrimonious to know any way different than to take care of himself and grow up fast. He didn't ever show Spain the affection Romano knew he deserved because he was afraid it would be like with Grandpa Rome all over again. Romano would get attacked, desire attention and love, only to get pushed out of the way by someone else. It was a shit cycle that always, _always_ seemed to get to Romano. Like his brother for example. Italy.

They still loved each other very much, just like brothers should, even after being apart for so long, but Italy lived with Germany now. Romano knew how close they were. In reaction to being last choice, again, he'd stayed with Spain as opposed to leaving and becoming powerful on his own. Mainly because he was weak and scared, but because he was lonely too. He missed his bother, and he missed his grandfather even though he hated him sometimes. Romano chose to fill that hole with the same thing he covered his fears with; anger and hurtfulness. Of course, the root of that was the exact same thing as the root of all his other problems: There was always someone better than he was.

Except...here, he was coming to realize. Here being Spain's house, of course. At... at home, he was best. Or so Spain told him. Even when he was a little nation, the other would dote over him and take care of him just as well as he remembered Grandpa Rome did for Italy. He was still a brat, naturally, that wasn't going to change, but Spain had worked around that like his grandfather didn't. If there was someone better, Spain never seemed to acknowledge them. He just treated Romano like he was best. Romano enjoyed that, he knew he did, but he never showed it. If that other best person did come along, he'd just be a third wheel, again. Romano didn't want that to happen.

He realized then that he had been standing in the middle of his room, just staring. The door was closed behind him, no sounds from the hall, and the sky was beginning to cloud over. His temper had cooled, and again his brain could translate thoughts his body could rationally understand. He'd just been left by Spain, just like Grandpa Rome had left. No. He wouldn't allow it. So he turned and faced the door. He had to go back out and make something else happen. Romano didn't want to stay angry, and he certainly didn't want Spain to think he was. He didn't want him to end up sad and old like Grandpa Rome. Romano had to make sure he was still okay. Not had, rather, he wanted to make sure.

This was a new kind of feeling that possessed him to open the door and look out into the hall. He had no idea what it was, but he liked it far too much for it to be healthy. That's why he figured, if he checked on Spain, it would go away. He took a tentative step out, casting a quick look over his shoulder. It would be easier to stay, like he always did. Easier to block things out until they went away and just left a dull ache that only bugged him a little. But no, he was guessing this feeling would leave more than just an ache, and he was selfish for wanting to get rid of it and dump it on Spain. Oh well. At least he knew he was feeling better and not turning into a sentimental jerk. If that ever happened he knew he would have to jump off a building because he wouldn't be able to stand himself any more. Another step out, but his confidence hadn't grown any.

He didn't bother closing the door. He figured that if he needed to make a tactical retreat, it was best to leave it open. After more movement from his legs, he found himself a good three feet from his door, and just three feet closer to exactly where he didn't want to go. His slacks made gentle swishing noises on the smooth wood floors, and occasionally one would protest at being stepped on. In that case Romano would quickly remove his foot and place it elsewhere, where no loud creaks would resound in the hall. He didn't like what he was doing, but he didn't like just leaving Spain to mope either. Okay, maybe not _mope_, but sit on that damn couch all day and read, which is what Romano found him presently doing. He couldn't make out facial features, not from his post in the door frame, just hunched shoulders and a head of brown hair. He turned and looked behind him, finding that the hall and the familiarity of his little angst box seemed so much more appealing than the nice big room in which a very large weak spot of his sat.

After more than his share of internal badgerings, lip bitings, and conflicted feelings, he inched his way quietly into the sitting room. When Spain shifted his position and the pages of his book crinkled, Romano froze dead in his tracks and didn't move. Thankfully he hadn't been spotted, so to be extra careful he lowered himself onto all fours and again took up his crossing of the living room floor. Once close enough to the couch where he could make out each individual hair on Spain's head, he sat on his knees and inched forward until he was close enough to accomplish what he wanted to do but didn't necessarily have to, which was new for him. He rested one hand on Spain's shoulder and the other wrapped around his chest. From behind his sleeve he mumbled an apology that was only half heard by the other, but it was enough to clear his slightly confused expression.

"You're apologizing? Aw, Romano!"

"Shut up," the other replied, now not so sure this had been a good idea after all. He did keep hold on the other though, nestling his chin into the other's shoulder and making himself more comfortable. The thought that this had been a bad idea seemed a fleeting memory now, and a new opinion started inching from his head to his chest in the back of his subconscious. Romano read over Spain's shoulder, although Spain wasn't really reading anymore. The breath that tickled his neck was too distracting so he allowed Romano to lick his fingers and turn the pages for him. And then there was the blushing, the nuzzling and the snuggling. Spain stole a kiss and Romano blushed a violent red color that seemed to scar his checks. As gracefully as he could possibly manage, he climbed over the back of the couch and sat in Spain's lap. His mind was churning, and he felt a weird feeling in a pit of his chest where he didn't know he could feel. He reached out and put his finger under the words and started reading.

"It was at night that they came for you, always at night. The proper thing to do was kill yourself before they got to you. Undoubtedly some people did so." He kept reading, taking the book from the hands of the other and holding it closer so he could see. Spain hung onto every word, arms finding their way around the smaller's waist and he rested his cheek against Romano's shoulder. He tried not to falter in his reading, but sometimes it was difficult, fighting the weird bubbly feeling in his stomach where he knew giggles came from, and trying to read a very serious book. So to hopefully keep those silly feelings dormant, he held the book with one hand and the other reached behind his shoulder and touched Spain's cheek, gingerly running his fingertips along the other's jawline. Spain kissed Romano's fingers, smiling.

They sat there for a long time, touching and kissing as Romano stumbled over the words in the book and Spain tried very hard to listen. They got through one more chapter before Romano got fed up with trying to read when he really had better things to do, so he dog-eared the page and straddled Spain with his legs on either of his sides, smiling and resting his forehead against the other's. He traced fingertips across Spain's even skin, down his neck, under the collar of his shirt. His fingers played with the first button, and he felt Spain touch his stomach. That feeling Romano had enjoyed too much before got worse, but the deeper the feeling set the better it felt. This idea was definitely not at all awful anymore. Of course, he could always expect Spain to ruin the moment with his stupid, not serious teasing and fetish for cute things. Romano, unfortunately, fell into that category.

"You're so adorable," Spain cooed, tickling the underside of Romano's chin with his finger. Romano scowled, sticking his tongue out. Spain, seizing advantage of the moment, craned his neck down and sucked the smaller's tongue deep into his mouth. Romano was surprised, but found the... leeching feeling was actually quite a turn-on. He sucked back and there was a suction sound between their lips. Saliva dribbled out onto Romano's chin, so Spain pulled out of his mouth to lick it off and attack him with more kisses. The smaller would occasionally try and get words out, but that was difficult until they both had to resurface for a breather. However then it was hard to find what he wanted to say.

"I-I don't-" But every time he tried to spit the words out, he would get choked up on air and stop, breathe, and try and start again. "Spain, I-"

"Shh!" A finger pushed against Romano's lips, and startled, he looked up to see Spain starting at him. He gazed back a moment before opening his mouth.

"What are you doing?" His words were muffled by Spain's finger, and sounded a bit silly. Spain made a happy squealing noise, blushing pink, to which Romano rolled his eyes. It was just like the other to be so immature, or so was his opinion.

"Shut up Bastard," he teased, poking Spain in the stomach where there should have been a punch. Spain smiled in response. This was going better than he had been expecting.


	3. Part III

Part Three:

Where the Common Theory "Distance Makes the Heart all the Fonder" is Put To the Test

In fact, everything seemed to be going better than he'd been expecting. At least, for a while. For the rest of the day and a few days after, he and Romano were attached at the hands and the lips, never without the other in close company. They would sleep together, snuggle and read in the afternoons, run around and act like children in the gardens in the mornings. The whole house seemed to be taken in a light cheery mood, and even the assistants were warmer towards Romano, who had transformed into a totally different person. He would smile at everyone, cuss less, and shockingly enough, help out more around the house in terms of cleaning. Spain was in a better mood too, laughing 'round the clock and stressing less about the stupid things.

It had been a very long time that Spain had imagine his home being like this, and more than the home, he and Romano being as close as they were. Even when Romano was a kid, Spain had dreamed of the day he was old enough to understand this. He'd been at that age for a while, but only now he seemed accepting of the idea that the one who he hated wasn't really deserving of the negative feeling. For once he could get so comfortably close without having to worry about being cussed at or punched. Instead he was lucky to get kisses and hugs and lovely words he'd longed to hear. But one day things were different, right from the start. Romano awoke before Spain, and lay there for a few minutes before the other woke too.

"Morning..." Spain mumbled, giving the smaller a kiss on the shoulder.

"Good morning," Romano replied, squeezing Spain's hand but offering no more than that. The taller pushed himself up on one arm, looking down at the boy beside him. It seemed that the response was a bit short to be normal.

"Are you okay?" he asked, concerned. Romano nodded, turning and grabbing Spain's shirt and dragging him back down into the bed.

"Mhm." It took longer than normal to pull him out of bed and into clothes, and even then he seemed to only want to hide in Spain's side all day. He acted shy and scared, and every time he looked up into Spain's olive eyes, it almost looked like he was going to burst into tears any minute. It was because of this that, when Romano excused himself early from dinner that Spain obliged with no questions and a kiss. After he'd left though, Spain finished eating in a state of worry. He worried as he retrieved the book they were working on together and disquieted when Romano didn't join him in the courtyard as was usual.

So he opened the pages of the book and scanned through what they had read the night previous. He didn't really remember it, though he did recall the color of Romano's underpants matching that of his red face. That made him laugh to himself, and because of such noise he almost missed the footsteps walking down a stone path adjacent to his bench. He looked up from the pages to see a familiar form moving down the path, only Romano wasn't in the clothes he had been wearing that morning. It was his military uniform. That sent fear and confusion through Spain, and he set the book down quickly and stood.

"Hey, Romano!" The other glanced over his shoulder, and upon realizing who it was, took off again at a faster pace. "Wait!" Spain called, running down the stone path. Romano turned, standing and waiting until the other caught up. "Where are you going?" he asked, out of breath but sincerely concerned.

"I'm going to go beat up Germany, Bastard, I told you." But even as he put on his prideful and smug mask, he felt awful for lying. It had to be done though.

"Germany?" Spain replied, alarmed. He grabbed Romano's shoulders with worry etched into his olive green eyes. "You'll get your butt kicked! No, Romano, stay here with me." He locked his arms around the other's shoulders again, crushing him. Romano didn't look too happy, and a dark cloud of anger seemed to hang over his head. He pushed the other via face, white gloved hands forcing Spain off of him.

"No, I won't. If I say I'm fine, I'm fine dammit!" He body checked the other roughly to put more distance between them. Spain stumbled back, tripping backwards and falling hard on his ass. Romano looked down at him, and his hand twitched, trying to help Spain up and be good even when Romano's instinct told him not to. Spain looked up at him with broken green eyes and hurt weighing down his shoulders. Romano had a moment of venerability, and it was that that saved their relationship from crumbling completely. "Goodbye Spain," Romano said quickly, glancing his gaze to the ground. He was able to see Spain one last time, sprawled out on the stones with words dropping from his mouth. But they made no sense. Frustration had long clouded his judgment and his senses, and he no longer felt things at the forefront of his brain. He promptly turned on his heels, striding down the pathway and forcing himself not to look back. He raised his chin and kept moving.

Yet as he walked away, something seemed to be growing in his stomach. It was just a little seed then, but a week or so later when he stood on the battlefield with Germany's massive forces in front of him, there was a small sprout with a few leaves, and by then it was distinguishable as an actual feeling. Of course, it was too late to act upon that little bit of life inside him, and Romano had to dig up the darker soil underneath, grab his gun, and pretend that he wasn't regretting leaving Spain, and the safe-place and love (if it was appropriate to go that far) that was given to him there. He had other things, things that although weren't more important, did involve more concentration, like the fact there was no way this fight was going to end well.

Nothing seemed to end well for him recently. Things always started out fine, but the endings were just awful. Like just a week ago, when he had been over to his brother's house. Italy had seemed unusually cheery, and despite that, Romano still felt angry because Germany was there too. The day started out with pasta eating and Italy showing off his latest collection of white flags, evolving into cooking and more eating and whatever Italy wanted to do. Unfortunately that also included dragging Germany everywhere with them, when it was supposed to be just a brother's event. Turns out there was a reason, a very terrible reason that pissed Romano off to the point of violence.

It was at the end of his stay that spanned a few days, when Romano was leaving and the sun was setting over the hills. They were standing on Italy's front door, saying goodbyes that consisted of hugs and awkward kisses that Romano really did not want. But he stood there anyway, patting his brother on the back and half wanting to get home already, when Italy said he had a last bit of news. With an excited smile, he held out his left hand, where resided a ring on his finger. With his other, he grabbed Germany's left hand, and Romano found one there too. The tall blonde was blushing red, but Italy was fine with that. Apparently they'd been engaged for a while now, and he only waited because he wanted to tell Romano in person. But regardless of when news got out, they seemed very happy. Romano left the house with some food to take home, a headache, and a wedding invitation.

Under normal circumstances, he wouldn't want to even have part of any wedding, but it was his younger brother. It was Romano's job to take care of him, keep him safe and innocent, and letting him get fucked by Germany every night with a ring on his finger was not the way to go. It was not the way life was supposed to work, not the way Italy was supposed to grow up, nothing like that at all. Not only that, but his hate for Germany was so thick you could have drizzled it on top of pancakes. Germany was always mean to Romano, and the smaller was only afraid for his brother. Until he realized that meant he had good morals, and them resorted to selfish thoughts such as what kind of an ass he would have for a brother-in-law.

Whatever about it that made him angry, either way he was so frustrated it wasn't even funny. He was not about to let Italy give his life away through a vow made to someone without speaking his mind through actions. He wanted the best for his brother, so yelling at him (again) would do no good. Because of that, the only reasonable way to vent his anger was by taking his troops and battling with Germany over the virginity of Italy. Romano had had three days to fume over that, so by the time he got home to Spain, he could formulate a plan of action logically. Looking back on it now though, he would have rather accepted the embrace Spain offered rather than pushed out of his arms and run to the chart room.

It took him all of three days to bring together his own men and send off a warning to Germany. Everything was going to go exactly as he planned, and he would save his brother from an awful fate. The fight would work out wonderfully, and it was the perfect plan. Or so it had seemed then, when Romano was hyped up on anger and and confident that Germany would be too busy picking out flowers rather than bothering to assemble his army until last minute. Of course, Romano was now finding that was not true and he was royally screwed. It now seemed like a terrible, terrible plan. He had no idea back then though. Maybe if he did, he wouldn't be standing in front of his nervous generals, pacing and trying to convince them, as well as himself, that this _was_ the right course of action and this _was_ the way things were going to be.

But honestly? Do you know how things would really be if he had his way? Romano wouldn't have lead his men out onto that battlefield. There would have been no fight. God he wished there would have been no conflict. He regretted everything as soon as the first gunshot was fired. This feeling was masked though, as it always was, and he just called another volley. There were tanks, soldiers, warfare gasses, and the clouded sky was green lit with the sparks of cannon-fire. Terror rained from the skies in the form of blood from both sides. More than anything Romano wanted it to stop, inside there was something screaming at him to stop sending people into that Hellhole. But he didn't stop. There was still death, there was still blood and violence, but what he hadn't been expecting were backups.

The only way he saved himself, and most likely the only reason that others got out alive and not dead or captured was by using the other fallen as a frontal. With a broken arm, bruised ribs, and blood trickling out his nose, Romano managed to wedge himself into a pile of cold dead corpses and feign death, so when the new German troops made a final killing sweep, he was passed over and ignored. But he knew what that was. That was running, hiding, being a coward.

He knew he was. He knew that he wasn't tough or strong, and it was because of that that, after all that was left were dead men and three or four survivors, that he climbed out of the bodies and hung his head in shame. Romano's body was bruised and beaten, bloody and dirty. There were tears in his clothes, stains on his skin from the gas that would take days to fade, cuts on his face and his knuckles were scraped to the bone. His ego hurt more. For a moment that was pushed aside, and he found that those standing with him were men of his. They weren't too happy. Who would be, if their general lead them right into suicide? So instead of helping him, they sent one off to find the nearest town and write for help, while the others began identifying their fallen.

Romano would have helped, but corpses, when he wasn't under the influence of adrenaline, made him sick. So he mumbled something about seeing how far the fight had stretched, and he wandered off in the direction he hoped to be the shore. He wallowed in self pity and remorse, and the mental scars got worse and worse. Then he felt dizzy, light-headed, and he had to sit. But sitting turned to leaning, which finally turned to lying down and passing out. He was too weak to keep himself awake. There was no will left.

–

Spain watched Romano's figure from the floor as he walked away, and even after the smaller turned the corner he stayed down on the path. He didn't even get up yet. He didn't see reason to. Romano had put him there, so obviously there was reason; there had to be, or else he was sitting on the floor and looking stupid. He tried to open his mouth and call out, to try and reel Romano back, but the weasel was already long gone, even if Spain could still see him walking away. Romano's _mind_ was already long gone from the mulberry bush they had shared together, and there was no drawing it in now.

It took a lot to make him stand, and after he was up it took him even more to hold his ground and not follow Romano, even though his every instinct told him to. He wanted to run after him, hold him, tell him to wait until he could muster the troops to help out, even if Romano would say no. Or, more specifically, "Fuck off Bastard!" and push him over again. Anything was better than this. At least maybe... But that was too much to hope. At least maybe things would turn out better? At least maybe Romano would pull his head out of his ass and take a look at what was really going on? No way in Hell. Spain knew better than to think like that.

So after having stood there for a few, watching down the path that the other had walked away on, he turned and walked the other way. Each step was heavy on the ground, and it was the only thing that Spain could hear. The birds, the other people around him, every other noise faded into some dull background roar. Each step was without purpose, and the noise his shoes made was a hollow sound on the stones. His brain's thought process seemed to slow drastically, and some part of him refused to believe this was happening. Denial; somewhat cliché, he'd always thought, but now that it was happening to him, he felt differently.

The orange-ing time didn't seem as beautiful. The sky was an empty, muted shade of color, the leaves seemed a muddy, unattractive, green. The flowers went unnoticed by the man walking through the gardens, and his house that had once been seen as a magnificent castle was now just some strange building. Even once he was inside, the lights were dim in his eyes and Spain felt like he'd been ripped from his home even as he walked right through it. That same track his legs had traveled before seemed slower as if coated with rust, and it felt like ages before he made it up the stairs and into his bedroom. The bed was still made and a little wrinkly from Romano's iffy job at dressing the mattress, but the clothes were neatly stacked in the dresser, whose drawers had accidentally been left open. Almost perfect now seemed less than. He kept walking onto the bathroom, flicking on the lamp and standing in front of the counter. He looked into the mirror, and hated what he saw.

"All around the Mulberry bush..."

He watched his lips make the words, fold around them and spit them out.

"The monkey waits for the weasel..."

He was almost expecting his eyes to go black and his face to twist into something ugly.

"The monkey was very alone..."

He let his head fall against the glass, a little harder than he intended, eyes squeezed shut so he wouldn't have to see anymore.

"Pop! Left the weasel..." He choked. A single wet drop resounded on the counter and another fell from his other eye. He was never this emotional. About anything. What made that time any different? Why could Romano make him this way? He did not like it. Now more than ever he wanted Romano back so he wouldn't be like this and he didn't care if that was considered selfish.

That night he went to bed in a state that was most commonly known as depression, and did not fall asleep until early hours of the morning. Even then he found it was the worst sleep he'd had in the longest time, and wasn't fully rested when he woke. In fact, he felt like crap the next morning. The day passed in a kind of half-conscious funk, and before he knew it he was back in bed again, alone and clinging to the pillow with a big empty pit in his stomach. He hardly ate and spent most of his time either on the third floor or down in the gardens. He found he paced more than normal too, and as the days went by he took to walking the entire length of his house three times before lunch. This was getting to be too much. It was hard to stay angry, and more often than not he found anxiousness was in the place of anger. Then he tried to hold the grudge all over again, but things never worked that way. Something always got in the way. It was eroding his brain, the guilt, if it was really that. However Spain couldn't think of a better word, and so he deemed it was guilt he was feeling. It couldn't possibly be anything else.

After about a week and a half of pacing, no letters or word, and no Romano, Spain flipped. He wasn't going to stand around anymore. He sent the order for all his generals and lieutenants to gather that morning, early, in the chart room on the second floor. Spain was their earliest of all, pacing around the large circular table and pouring over the maps and watching silently as his members filed in and took their places. It took all of five minutes, and as soon as everyone was there, Spain wasted no time in getting straight to the point.

"I want my fleet ready to sail by tonight. We're making a sweep of the German battlegrounds and finding Romano's army. Bring a few legions if you must in case the battle is still going." All the men stared at him, slacked jawed and eyes wide. The older generals who had known Spain a while figured this one of the stupidest things he had ever done, and the younger, newer members were beginning to regret joining.

"...¿Qué? Señor, what are asking us to do?" asked one man, clearing his throat nervously.

"Ya me ha oído!" Spain yelled angrily. "Ready the Armada. We're going after Romano."

"We are?" asked one of his naval officers, clearly startled and worried.

"Yes. I want every ship ready as soon as humanly possible."

"But sir!" one of the younger generals piped up. "Why on earth are we going after him? As I recall he said he didn't need assistance." The other men in the room nodded and whispered amongst themselves. They were all frankly glad Romano was gone, and weren't too please with the prospect of spending good energy and resources looking for him when he'd gone to dig his own grave.

"Because I said so!" Spain snapped back, turning and stalking towards the door. "¡Date prisa! Ponerse en marcha!" He could hear the chatter and shuffles of his men getting ready as he strode out of the room. It was because of the noise that no one heard his last remark. "I'm not letting him die alone," and with those final words he let the heavy doors fall shut behind him with a bang. The corridor seemed taller than ever, and his footsteps echoed clearly as he ran down the hall and back to his room. The closet where was his uniform hung was closed, and had been for many years. It was open now though, and the hat, sash, and regalia ripped from the hangar.

Normally the wearing of the uniform was a kind of ceremonious deal, but Spain had it on and was strapping on the belt and sheath where his sword sat, still sharp, in a few minutes flat. He paused only a moment before the mirror to adjust his sash and hat before rushing out and practically sprinting out of the house and out to the stables. There he mounted his dark brown horse and began riding the few miles to the harbor, where the crewmen and military officers were alive with the chaos that came with a search-and-rescue.

–

Spain stood on the prow of the ship at the head of the fleet, hands gripping the polished rails and eyes scamming the sea. The noise of his crew and generals was just a dull sound in the background, the waves retreating to small crashes in his ears. The only thing he could hear was the blood in his veins and his heart, pumping faster and faster by the second. The beat picked up again when he saw a lump in the distance, dark green and the sky above it was clouded with what he knew to be gun smoke and mustard gas.

"¡Tierra! Más hacia el este! Treinta nudos, Hombres, ponerse en movimiento!" he barked, and the clatter of sounds got louder and more wild. He kept his eyes glued though. He had to be there. Romano.

–

Consciousness hurt like a mother. Romano could feel every ache and hurt in his body that he was unaware of when he was out, and there were so many it felt like he was being ripped in two. He managed to gather the strength to lift himself up. The field of people was still there, the other survivors were nowhere in sight. He looked out across the sea of bodies, and because of dehydration and the amount of blood he had lost, he started hallucinating. There was that fight again, Germany's smug face with a worried little Italy by his side, blurry bloodstained faces groping at him, and the screams wouldn't stop. He rolled back over, back bent at the middle. A vessel burst in his nose, and blood was again streaming down his face, from his nose and eyes. His mouth was coated in white foam, limbs twitching by their own accord, and things started getting fuzzy and hard to see.

The seizure lasted a while, he didn't know how long, but he could feel his body giving up and shutting down. After his body stopped trembling and he could once again control his own movements, his shaking hands wiped the blood from his eyes so he could see again. Might as well remember the last place he would ever see, because it was then that he was sure he was going to die. He couldn't see any way out. Those that had gotten out alive had already left, and Spain had no idea where he was. Spain. God, he would die alone and guilty. Why couldn't he just stop being a stuck up little boy? He was going to die. Spain would never know what had happened to him. With all those desperately dark thoughts and still weakened physical state, he thought he was still hallucinating when he saw it, a figure walking in the distance. The way it walked, the way it moved... Romano had grown up learning to mimic those motions, to copy each movement with care. But it couldn't be.

"Spain?" It was a small breath that escaped Romano's lips when he saw the other trudging across the field, peering down into the faces of the bodies. Romano managed to push himself up onto one arm, holding the broken one close to his body. "Spain!" The call was louder this time, and the figure in the distance looked his way. The smaller frantically waved his hand, and the other took off at a sprint over to him. Romano was then hit with a wave of pain and exhaustion, and he collapsed to the ground again, wheezing as a sharp flood of needles raced through his arm. The figure that walked up to him was blurry, but still distinguishable as Spain in his military uniform, and for a moment Romano was confused. He wasn't at war with anyone, was he? Then conquest came to mind, then search and rescue, and things clicked into place. But then the gears fell out again. There was no use in thinking when he was this messed up, physically and mentally.

"You came?" Romano finally asked as Spain quickly knelt beside him. His green eyes were scarred with worry, and he quickly helped the other into a sitting position.

"Of course I did," he replied, sitting close to him and inspecting each cut and bruise no matter how small until he came to the broken arm. Quickly he untied the sash from around his waist and fashioned a sling for Romano's arm. The smaller yelped a little, pain shooting up his arm.

"Dammit!" he exclaimed, again tucking his arm close to his chest so it wouldn't have to be touched. But he was too tired and too injured to say much else, let alone put up a fight when Spain tucked an arm under his legs and on his back and lifted him up. Instead, he rested his head against Spain's collarbone and closed his eyes. Spain wordlessly carried the half-alive boy across the battleground of blood and to the coast where his ships were waiting to take them home. As he walked, he rested his head against the other's, listening to his shuddering breath and small whimpers of hurt. Spain continued to shush him, nuzzle his forehead, try and keep Romano calm until the shore came into view. Sitting there was his Spanish Armada, docked with rowboats waiting for him.

He quickened his pace, and as soon as his generals were within earshot, he started shouting out orders. Room was made, and Spain laid the boy he was carrying the bottom of the boat as carefully as he could manage. Romano closed his eyes tighter and let out a whole new string of cuss words. Spain knelt beside him and the boats rowed away. The medics were tending to the boy, even as he was being taken off the boat and moved to a cabin on one of the bigger boats. Spain followed too, wringing his hands in worry and peering over shoulders to catch glimpses of Romano's pained face. Once the medical officers had left, Romano lay on a cot, chest bare and skin pale. His arm was in a sling and bandages taped to his body where cuts had been inflicted. Spain tossed his hat and jacket over the back of a nearby chair, kneeling beside Romano and stroking his head. The doctors had given him sleeping medicine, and he was out cold.

"Oh Romano... Why did I let you go?" He grasped one of the smaller's hands between both of his, holding it to his forehead with his eyes squeezed shut as if that would bring him back to consciousness. But it didn't, and Romano didn't move more than a drug induced mumble. Spain felt a single tear roll down his cheek from the corner of his eye, and there was guilt embedded deep in his stomach. He hadn't done anything, lifted no finger to stop Romano from leaving, made no movement to help... Another wave of self-loathing crashed over him, and he felt worse than he had even when Romano pushed him over. This had been all his fault. The broken and bruised body of Romano was all his fault. There was more he could have done, there was more he _should_ have done, but no. It was over and done with. Spain could do nothing now but help him get better.

The ship creaked with each wave that battered its side, the floor often tilted, but Spain stayed kneeling by Romano's bedside, shooing away each general that tried to speak with him. There was no news that needed discussing. They were going home and that was that, no detours, no extra stops. Romano needed it. Spain's feelings for the boy might have clouded his judgment, but because of that he saw no wrong in his actions. So it was full sails and oars until the shores of Spain's home came into view on the horizon.


	4. Part IV

Part Four:

Where Time Fixes More than Bruises and a Broken Arm

As soon as his ship was docked, Spain had gathered Romano in his arms and took off into the port. It was full of people, some shouting for him, others rushing to help unload the ships, but the blood rushing in his ears and the pounding of his heart was still blocking out the noise. All the other things would just have to wait until Romano was up and well again. His house on the small hill looked ever-welcoming, and he practically sprinted up through the grass, past the doors, and up the great stairs to his room. There was a bath ready, that had been prepared for him, but Romano needed it more, as he was in worse condition.

He paused only a moment to kick the door shut and flick on the lights before setting the boy down on the bed. He took a quick moment to strip from his military uniform and throw on some casual clothes, leaving the expensive linens in a rumpled pile on the floor. Returning to Romano's side, the taller began helping him out of his clothes and shushing his soft mumbles. After doing so, he picked up the naked boy and carried him into the bathroom, kissing his hot forehead.

"C'mon Kiddo," he said, lifting him into the tub of hot water. As it lapped over Romano's skin, he woke up a little more, eyes glazed over with pain.

"Fuck! Bastard, what are you doing? Bastard!" But his cries dimmed down as he got used to the water, and he once again slunk into a dizzy state. Spain kept shushing him, scooping water in his hands and dumping it over red cuts and scratches. Romano's closed eyes squeezed shut even tighter again, but didn't cuss this time. Spain bathed him in soap and warm water, being mindful of his busted arm. After he helped him dry off and back into soft clothes. He picked the smaller up again, Romano snuggling up close to him because it made him feel safe. Even when Spain tried to lower him down into his bed and push him under the sheets he grabbed at the taller's clothes and mumbled in a half drug induced state. If it were to be an audible sound it would have been something along the lines of "Don't go".

Romano slept for days, waking only to eat, drink, bathe, and do his business. Even then, he was really only half awake, groggy and therefor everything Spain said to him was lost in the muddled mess that was his mind. The only thing that he was absolutely sure of was the fact he was safe, and he didn't even think about who was taking care of him. If he hadn't been all whacked out on painkillers, he would have thrown a fit and insisted he could do it himself, which he could have, however the fact he wasn't was a sure sign that he had taken too many meds. Spain, meanwhile, didn't care that Romano couldn't hear or comprehend what he was saying. He babied him around more than usual, and sat with him every hour of the day. Meals would be brought to him, and whenever he had to leave, someone else was put in charge of watching the sleeping boy. He would always return right away, shoo the other off, and sit with Romano again.

There was, of course, reason for this. Mostly he blamed himself for having let Romano leave in the first place. Then he reminded himself that the younger was uncommonly stubborn, and that could not be helped. Next he tried to convince himself it was because he didn't raise Romano right when he was a kid, and that he had been compelled to war because he had seen Spain fighting more times than once. That seemed the most plausible, until he realized that when compared with all of his neighbors, he was fairly peaceful now. There was a whole another array of things that he could say that would let the blame fall squarely onto his shoulders, but for the moment Romano was talking in his sleep again, or trying to fight the drowsiness that came with the pain medication. Either way, once Spain saw that the other was even slightly awake, he became focused on Romano and he only.

"Mth... spn... I hrm serry..." All of his mumbles were completely inaudible and could hardly be distinguished as words. Spain quickly pulled himself up on the bed, stroking the side of Romano's head gripping his hand tightly.

"Shh," he cooed softy, trying to keep Romano calm and asleep. He muttered something else, tried turning and ended up bumping his broken arm against the bed, making him flinch and shift the other way. Spain, now standing, helped him move, pulling the covers back around him and shutting the curtain as night was setting in already. He then sat again, resting his head against the mattress and closing his eyes. Rain started to fall against the window, and that combined with Romano's breathing made Spain sleepier. He reached one hand up and grabbed onto Romano's wrist where he felt a weak pulse, another reassurance that he was still around.

Sitting in the ill-fitting position he was, it took a while for Spain to fall asleep, and when he did it was a kind of comatose sleep, with weird dreams about war and a little red flower that resembled a tomato. It was one big ass metaphor, but in his groggy state it was impossible to figure it out. And when he woke up he didn't remember, so there was nothing to figure out. He just blinked, saw Romano was still asleep, and life pushed on him again.

He seemed more depressed than he had been for a while. The last time he felt this way was when France held him territory for a few weeks before losing him back to Spain again. Dark clouds of just shit seemed to hang all over the house, especially around Spain's head. The empty spot in his heart that conscious Romano had possessed had to be filled with other things, which consisted mostly of rereading those books which he and Romano would read together. He would sit at Romano's bedside all day, reading out loud with one hand stroking the other's hair. After all those were gone which took about a day, he had to find other things. So he would take to cleaning Romano's room several times over the course of the hour, brushing away dust that wasn't there, alphabetizing the books, straightening pictures that weren't crooked, anything he could think of that kept him occupied in Romano's room. After there was nothing left, he would sit and hum back on the pillow by Romano's bedside. There was nothing else to do.

It was a few days after he found Romano that Spain was finally convinced he was going to make it. He started leaving more often, always leaving more people to watch in his stead. He left to cook food for himself and Romano, only the favorites that the other was capable of swallowing, to find other books to bring back, to go out shopping for more of whatever they needed. However Romano wasn't without a watchful eye, and Spain was back as soon as he could manage to keep him company. But the guilt and the hurt was no less than the minute the other had left, nor when he found Romano half-dead on the battlefield. He wasn't much of the praying type, but he did, wishing Romano a speedy recovery and maybe some salvation for his greatly tarnished soul.

Days were blurry, and it rained more than was normal in that season of the year. Of course, Romano didn't notice. He was sluggish all the time, with dimmed visions and headaches all around the clock. Time passed, and whenever he was slightly conscious, he had no idea what day it was or what time. He didn't care though, because whenever he was up, Spain was there. Or at least, someone that felt like Spain and sounded like him. The food he was fed had no taste, but his brain told him that it was stuff he liked, so he ate it without complaining. Not that he had the strength anyway; he had to be helped whenever he wanted to do anything, including sitting. Not only that, but his bones felt brittle and cold, so anything warm he had to stay close to, which was more often than not a human body. Spain, actually. And after Romano realized that, he never let him go.

Call it giving back, because even in his state he remembered pushing Spain down, remembered how many times he put him down. He felt awful. Having almost died seemed to flick some switches in his head, and something changed and that sprout inside him blossomed a flower. A red tomato flower. Which is why, whenever he felt himself fading, he forced his body to keep alive. He had to stay for Spain. Lying in bed, the will he lacked previously resurfaced, and he was able to reach his hand up, and touch soft brown hair.

"Romano..." The rest of the words were faded, but the name was all he needed. He tried to make words, but nothing clear would come out of his mouth.

"Ay...Les..." was all he could say, but he wanted to tell the other was, "Stay, please".

"It's okay, Romano." He felt a warm hand push hair away from his face, squeeze his fingers tight. It was a nice reassurance, calmed him, and brought back the guilt all over again. But that was okay. At least now Romano had a pretty good guess as to what he had forced Spain to feel while he was away. It was only right, it was only fair. Remorse would have been the word he would have said he was feeling, but right then Romano was too drugged to formulate such a word. His vision was still hazy and the feelings against him were numb, but he could feel a body wiggle next to him and see some green and a familiar outline of a face. He held on to the warm and soft body, and closed his eyes. He was too tired to keep his head up, so he let it fall on Spain's chest and relaxed.

–

When Romano woke and was finally fully conscious for the first time in two weeks, Spain was not with him. It was one of those rare moments when he had gone out to the small town on the hill above his house and did the shopping. Of course, Romano had no idea of the other's whereabouts, and frankly he was now quietly upset that he was not being looked after. He sat, reaching over and yanking open the curtains. A bright flood of sunlight fell over him, thin frame in a black tank top and soft brown slacks. His arm was still in a sling, but he found it hurt less than before. The white sheets on which he was laying were wrinkled and strewn about, and he noticed a book on his bedside table. He never read on his own. Upon opening it though, he found it was the book he and Spain had been reading before he left. On the floor was a set of empty dishes, and a note to the maid.

Leaning over the edge of the bed, he grabbed the note with his good hand, and found it had Spain's handwriting on it. It told the maid to wait with Romano until he got back from the store. Looking from it back to the bedroom, he found other evidence Spain had been around and stayed; a quilt on the couch, a green long sleeved shirt of Spain's flung on the back of a chair, a pillow right beside the bed that looked to have been sat on for a while. It was with all that evidence and that little flower that had grown bigger inside him that Romano realized that he'd not been left alone after all. So he lept out of bed, mindful of the things on the floor, grabbing Spain's shirt and yanking it over his head and running out the door.

His hair was whipped about in the wind as he ran through the halls and he barely heard the voices of others from rooms adjacent to him. He just kept running barefoot until he burst out the front door, where he paused to look around the courtyard and to all the different exits to see if he could find a familiar face. When he found none, he started off in a random direction, in hopes it lead to Spain. He passed people who whispered about him, and under normal circumstances that would have bothered him. However, now he was searching for something very important and it was imperative that he find it.

He did, just a few minutes later, walking down the path towards him. Spain's arms were loaded with several grocery bags, full of tomatoes and boxes of pasta, and all the other things Romano loved. For just an instant, the small dark-haired boy hid behind a column, watching the other. Spain walked differently than he did when he was in a good mood, that much was evident. His strides were short and sharp, and he looked worried. Romano gave up hiding once their eyes locked, and carefully he stepped out from behind the pillar. It was then he was hit with the rush of energy that had been dormant the entire time he was unconscious, and he ran out to meet the other. Spain had seen him as well, dropped all the bags in shock. He took two steps forward, curious. There was no way Romano could be up this early.

"Romano?" The rest of his words were choked off when the smaller hit him like a hurricane of excitement. Romano lept into Spain's arms, wrapping his busted arm around his neck and Romano's other hand tangled itself in Spain's hair. The taller, meanwhile, tightened his arms around Romano's middle, and a wildly happy smile ran across his face. He spun him around, drawing a lively laugh from Romano that lifted his insides. "Oh, I'm so glad you're okay!" When he rested Romano back on his feet, he stroked the dark-haired boy's face and felt hands hold tightly to his sides.

"Spain," Romano said breathlessly, taking a moment to gather his thoughts. "Spain I'm sorry I ran off on you and I wish I wouldn't have left because I missed you and I know you were right all along and I just wish I could take it all back, but I can't so I'm sorry." It all came out in one breath, and the haughty and uncaring facade inside him ripped in two. Spain smiled, and was too happy to find words in his head because Romano's still clogged his heart. So he kissed Romano tenderly, with smiles spreading across both their faces. The now was full of kisses and giggles, surprisingly enough, and touches too. Instead of punching the other in the stomach, Romano purred when his ahoge was tugged on, nuzzling Spain's chest and curling his fingers into orange fabric.

"Spain..." he said softly, and there was love somewhere in that word, in that name. Spain knew it was there, even if Romano didn't. He was happy. The monkey had his weasel again, and he knew it was only a matter of time before the chase started all over. Despite that, they were both perfectly okay about forgetting for the moment. Spain smiled down at the smaller, who returned the grin just as wide.

"Come on, let's go back," the taller said, reaching down and grabbing both bags again. Romano however, snatched one from his arm and carried it himself. Upon noticing Spain giving him a strange look, almost bewildered, he glared.

"What? I feel like carrying something today," was his thrown together response. To make sure Spain wouldn't pester him with further questions, he grabbed the other's free hand in his and began walking down the path towards the house. He smiled to himself. This was exactly what he wanted to wake up to. Of course, then his happiness got him thinking about his brother. Maybe, despite what Romano had set in his brain, Italy was quite happy to marry Germany. So maybe Italy got the ending that Romano hadn't wanted, but at least he got his. Spain smiled down at him, noticing that he was in content thought, but chose not to disturb him. It was nice to see him like that, in an almost day-dreamy state where the troubles of being an adult seemed far off.

"Hey Romano?"

"Yes?" The younger glanced sideways.

"Don't run off again. You scared me." Spain gave him a sincere look, and Romano understood completely.

"Okay..." He moved closer and rested his head against Spain's shoulder, smiling and bringing their conversation to a smooth stop. Of course he wasn't going to run off again. He had everything he wanted, which just so happened to be the very things he needed as well. They laughed and blushed all the way back up to the house, and from that point on those giggles seemed to be a lasting disease for which there was no cure. They knew there would be fights, but for the night they both slept in the same bed, and every one after was spent in the same manner. Romano, although now getting groped on a daily basis, was perfectly okay with that. Spain was cool with it too, not shockingly enough, and for the moment things were fine.

Now later, things would be more than fine. Later there would be fancy clothes, real dates, and sex. Later there would be a small cottage a few miles from home where weekends were spent, later there would be a wedding where Romano would stand by his brother as the grooms said their "I do"'s, and the after party would be killer. There would be other parties after that, with mornings full of headaches and Advil, wake-up blowjobs and then breakfast in bed.

But for now, there were only paper backs, silly chasing games, and kisses. Frankly the smaller, simple things were the easiest and the most comfortable when the relationship was built off of something so fragile as the events they went through. Maybe it made them stronger, which was the assumed idea, but as the weeks turned to months, idea became fact, reality became far better than any dream, and the mulberry bush became their sanctum where red tomato flowers grew and monkeys and weasels got along quite well for a long, long time. And that will never change.

[I apologize it's so short ._.' There will be a sequel eventually. I have it planned, although I don't have the intention of starting soon, as there are many other projects I'm working on as well and hope to post soon, as well as I do have things to read for the upcoming school semester. It'll be out eventually though ^.^]


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